Dancing on the Edge

There are scenes in this film that truly engrave themselves in one’s mind. A young man stands facing the ballet barre, holding a cell phone, speaking into it: "I have eight minutes to stretch." Then he says nothing more. He listens. He barely comprehends what his father is saying. There was an attack, an explosion: "And then arms rained from the sky, body parts. Don't forget me, my son." They are close, this father and his son. The mother is dead, the 50-year-old father has gone to war: "I'm here, I'm fighting — don't come back! You are the best thing we've accomplished in life." The son must not die. Not even for the Ukraine. The phone call ends. The young man cries. His girlfriend puts her arm around him, shielding him. This horror doesn't require a screenwriter. Fate is its director. ...